Your Sighs Are All Around
by tahnhoe
Summary: "I'm not really good at the whole aftermath thing." Lydia snorts. "Well, it's too late to take me out to dinner." / Or, the one when Stiles and Lydia have aftermath. And more sex. Part II of We're All Shook Up.
1. Chapter 1

your sighs are all around

( _"I'm not really good at the whole aftermath thing." Lydia snorts. "Well, it's too late to take me out to dinner."_ | Or, the one when Stiles and Lydia have aftermath. And more sex. )

* * *

Lydia sits up, squinting as her eyes attempt to adjust to the darkness. Her bedroom window is still open, though the noise from hours before has lessened, the dull hum of cars passing by and quiet wind drifting into the room.

She feels around, expecting to find the solidness of Stiles' body, instead landing on the empty space beside her, sheets disheveled and faintly warm, indicating that Stiles must have recently left her bed.

Naturally, Lydia's mind goes to the worst case scenario due to waking up like this too many times with too many different guys before, and is just barely reaching over to grab her cellphone and give Stiles a piece of her mind when she hears a creak down the hallway, and Stiles' hushed whispers coming closer to her door.

"Yeah, I locked the doors before I left. The windows, too. _Yes_, I enabled the security alarm but I highly doubt a burglar is going to find anything desirable in our house. Unless said burglar is looking for a consecutive collection of Marvel comic books from 1977 onward, or those protein shakes you bought in bulk three months ago that you still haven't opened," Stiles says in a rush, just outside of her door. "In fact, I'm pretty positive _no_ _one_ wants that bulk of protein shakes, now that I think about it."

He finally comes in, shirtless and his hair sticking up in several directions, exasperation clear on his face. Lydia might've taken him seriously if there weren't a distinct layer of fondness in the way he rolls his eyes and says something back, and his relationship with his father, as she's seen it grow and change and adjust _so_ many times, has always managed to make her heart swell and long for that type of relationship of her own at the same time.

Stiles notices her staring, softening as he points to his phone in playful annoyance, and grins at her quietly, like everything's changed and is still the same. Lydia feels something tug on her heart just barely, faint and easy to discard, for the time being, while Stiles tries wrapping up his conversation.

"Yeah, Scott and I are turning in for the night," he says easily, the half-lie rolling off his tongue, and for a brief moment, Lydia feels all wrong, until he meets her gaze once more, assuring her that it's okay.

"It is early for us, I know - Scott totally passed out on our Lord of the Rings marathon." Stiles plops down on the foot of her bed, nodding at whatever his father is saying, playing with the hem of Lydia's comforter. "Yep. Okay. Alright, dad - make sure to eat something. That _isn't_ from the vending machine. Love you, too. Yeah. Okay, goodnight." He ends the call, exhaling loudly and dropping his phone onto the floor, looking back at her with a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that. You know how he is."

"I know," she agrees, squinting at him. "You're a pretty convincing liar, Stilinski."

Stiles face flushes from what Lydia can see with the given light from her window. "I couldn't tell him the truth."

"You could've," Lydia counters, remembering those sleepless nights years ago, with Stiles laying at the foot of her bed, warm breath on her toes, and talking about his mom's death and her parents' divorce and how safe she felt, with his cheek pressed against her feet.

Stiles laughs quietly, reconnecting with the memory somewhere deep in his scattered mind.

"We're not kids, Lyds. I'm pretty sure our parents stopped allowing that for this very reason," he says, gesturing in between them and what occurred and Lydia's skin feels hot at the memory of his lips and hands and spit and heat, overwhelming her, and looks away from him, cheeks flushed.

"I suppose you're right," Lydia concedes, briefly wondering how many times Stiles has told a similar lie to his father, and a sickly feeling creeps into her chest, thinking about how many girls he's been with before her, and it's not fair to feel jealous or unsettled about it, and it's definitely unrealistic of Lydia to think she would've been his first, even if she was his first everything else. Even if she knew, somewhere along the line, this would've happened anyway.

Stiles must notice her discomfort, because he eases up beside on against the headboard, fiddling with his hands, his jaw shaking. "I'm not really good at the whole aftermath thing."

Lydia snorts. "Well, it's too late to take me out to dinner," she retorts dryly, realizing that was the wrong thing to say when Stiles' shoulders tense. "We can just go back to sleep, for now," she adds hastily, trying to grasp her handle back onto the situation, scolding herself for thinking the so-called aftermath would've been easier than this. Not this.

Stiles nods jerkily, settling beneath her covers, opening his mouth to say something but decides against it. Lydia lays flat on her back, staring at the ceiling as Stiles curves into her, his nose pressed into her shoulder, hand on her hip. Lydia exhales a shaky breath, her skin impossibly hot, from the heat and something else, something that has to do with the heavy press of Stiles' hand.

He starts rubbing lazy circles onto her hip, his movements sending shakes and trembles to her core. A faint ache thrums between Lydia's legs dimly, with the threat of turning into something burning and restless, and Lydia closes her eyes, attempting to ignore it.

Stiles' movements only inspire it, however lazy they may be, and Lydia's suddenly thinking about the deft of his fingers and the length and the thickness of them, the way they would fill her and press just right, and _fuck_, she needs him.

She hasn't quite gotten her fill, doesn't know how many times she'll ache and want and _need_, and the thought terrifies her, settling in her heart with the heaviness at that truth. With the heaviness of knowing it's something she shouldn't want, but she does, she does _so much_. She doesn't care to know why, not in this moment.

Instead, Lydia rests her hand on top of Stiles', whose movements falter slightly, and he exhales through his nose against her shoulder, shifting closer, body slotting into the lock that only seems meant for him.

Lydia breathes and pushes his hand down further, just barely to the edge of where the elastic of her panties would be, and Stiles barely lifts his head up, catching her eye in confusion and curiosity. Lydia maintains eye contact, pushing his hand further and further, past the trimmed patch of hair, past her clit (only Stiles lingers a little, brushing the tip of his finger against it, and fuck him because it makes her let out a noise crossed between a gasp and a whine, deep and strangled), and finally reaches her folds.

She grips his hand harder and he slips a finger inside of her, just barely but still enough to make her arch off the bed, pressing it further.

"Oh," Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, unable to formulate words, needing more of his hands and his mouth and his everything. "_Fuck_."

Stiles mouth parts, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and he presses deeper, curling his finger. "God, you're already so wet, Lyds," he says, his voice pained and hushed. "Tell me what you want and I _swear_ - I swear to god, I'll do it." She feels him, thick and heavy against her hip, and a different kind of want starts up, the want of his dick buried deep inside of her, too right to actually be right.

It threatens to consume her, that want, and Lydia's inner thighs shake and she whines as Stiles works her, adding a second finger, inhaling sharply when Lydia's nails dig into his hand. "I need -" she gasps, barely breathes. "_Harder_."

Stiles eagerly complies, pressing his thumb against her clit and sharpening his thrusts, rhythm sloppy and erratic, and Lydia moves with him, reaching up under her shirt to pinch her nipples, the pleasure intensifying deep in her stomach.

"Feel so good, Lyds. Wanna make you come _so_ good," Stiles mumbles against her skin, breath sticky and hot, voice guttural and thundering in his chest. Lydia whimpers, pathetically and completely unlike how she was hours before, reaching the precipice much sooner than she should, helpless under his hands. Stiles grunts against her neck, breathes. "Is this okay?"

Lydia sucks in a breath, head shaking and nodding at the same time. "One more, _please_ - " Stiles obeys, adding a third finger, stretching and filling her and, "Yes, _yes_, god, that's good," and the angle is too much, too good, blinding Lydia as she thrusts against him in desperation, her orgasm reaching the surface, raising goose bumps on her skin.

"Come on, Lydia, _come on_," Stiles urges, pressing and dragging against her clit, and she's coming, tipping over the edge so quick and sudden, with Stiles' breath on her shoulder and eyelashes brushing against her cheek, and then he's kissing her, his mouth hot and wet and sloppy.

His lips are frantic, pressing and biting like he needs to be saved, like she's the only thing anchoring him to earth, and Lydia presses her chest against his and her hips deeper onto his hand.

"So beautiful and perfect, I can't believe it. I've always thought about it," Stiles is mumbling, his words jumbled and hysterical, fueling Lydia's arousal with liquid fire. He pushes against her shoulder, sitting up and settling on top of her, kissing her jaw and neck, lips sucking and bruising marks on her pulse point. "Wanna taste you, bet you taste _so_ good, please let me, Lyds. _Please_," he begs, meeting her eyes with such desperation and longing that Lydia's heart cramps in her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

She can feel him, heat radiating off of his skin, hardness pressed into her inner thigh, and Lydia sucks in a breath, wanting his mouth and his cock and every other thought is erased in her mind, every thought but Stiles. Flooding her space and mind.

Lydia nods, words stuck in her throat, and Stiles slips down her body, pushing up her shirt just partly to press a kiss against the skin of her stomach, grinning at the way her muscles jump underneath his lips.

She would knee him in the stomach if his lips didn't feel so good, if everything he's done thus far hasn't felt _so_ good, and Lydia truly is helpless beneath him, wetness trailing down her thighs as Stiles trails down her body.

He places his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart, inhaling sharply at her scent, like he's discovered something sacred. Lydia's thighs tremble, the inner muscles clenching in anticipation, when finally Stiles his lips around her clit, sucking.

Lydia shrieks, back arching off the bed and hands finding purchase in his hair, pulling hard. Stiles moans into her, the sound vibrating against her, and it's _almost_ enough to completely wreck her, until Stiles presses a finger inside of her, curling right against her g-spot, and _that_ wrecks her, and Stiles knows it, grinning like the asshole he is, knowing how easy it'll be for her to fall apart.

He adds his tongue, flicking the tip of it against her clit, and Lydia cries out, bucking into his mouth uncontrollably, pressing his face closer. It faintly occurs to her that she's nearly suffocating him and lessens her hold on his head, dropping one hand to her bed sheets and pulling.

Stiles doesn't stop, pushing his tongue deep inside of her, lips grazing her clit with each thrust of his tongue, relentless. Lydia's orgasm creeps into her stomach, spreading down to her toes, and Stiles suddenly bites down, gently on her clit, and Lydia is _gone_, hips skyrocketing off her bed, her mouth open in a silent scream as she comes.

Stiles greedily licks up everything she has to offer, working her down, and she breathes heavily, vision blurry and heartbeat pounding against her chest, loud in her ears.

Lydia whines when Stiles' tongue becomes too much, pulling away, pressing the tips of her fingers against her chest to soothe the beating.

Stiles rests his head against her thigh, panting and proud of himself, kissing her skin. "Wow," he breathes.

Lydia nods, gaping slightly. He's ruined her. "Yeah," she agrees, feeling shocked and happy and slightly betrayed. "What handbook did you read out of?" Lydia asks, attempting for playfulness in her tone, but it comes out rigid and accusatory.

If Stiles notices, he ignores it.

"Cunnilingus 101," he responds cheekily, resting his head on her shoulder. "You know how much I like to do my research."

Lydia wrinkles her nose at him. "Not your best," her hand instinctively tangles in his hair, the strands mopped and damp from sweat. "I'm impressed." She practically feels Stiles beaming against her shoulder, and it makes her heart skip a beat, as unreasonable as it is. Lydia rolls over and on top of him, sitting up on his lap, smirking. "Now it's time for me to return the favor."

Stiles' look of pure shock fills her with so much glee, as if he didn't expect anything in return, which only, irritatingly enough, makes him that much more endearing. "I - _gah_.I mean - i-if you're sure," he stutters, falling all over his words, and Lydia rolls her eyes, pressing against his dick, grinning when he whimpers.

"Oh, I'm _positive_."

And when Lydia's mouth closes around Stiles' dick, she's absolutely, 100 percent certain that the sound he makes is one she would like to hear more often.

* * *

Inevitably, she does have to toss Stiles out of her house a few hours later, albeit not at 5am, to which Stiles smugly points out. Whatever. Details.

She still throws his backpack at his chest and took great joy in seeing him struggle to keep his balance on the tree branch. He leans over and kisses her anyway, long and sweet and completely unlike his frantic kisses before, which weren't really kisses but gasps of air, desperate and lingering.

This kiss lingers in a different way, in the way that makes Lydia touch her lips afterwards, in the way that the press of his hand against her neck still tingles the skin there, in the way that made her stomach flutter for minutes afterward when it shouldn't have.

In a way that makes Lydia realize that this needs to stop immediately, because there's no way in hell this can continue if her best friend has the ability to give her butterflies and question every other guy she's been with, wondering why she hadn't seen Stiles in that way, wondering _why now_.

It's overwhelming and confusing and Lydia decides to put an end to it, starting Monday, because Stiles is her best friend and he loves her and their relationship has always been easy, so therefore he'll be okay with it. He _has_ to be.

She tries to go through the rest of the weekend in her usual routine with the peace of mind, finishing up homework, laundry, errands, etc. Allison texts her a few times about various things that she can't focus on and Stiles asks her for the answers to their AP Physics homework, as if he hadn't just had his head buried in between her legs only the day before.

The thought makes Lydia's cheeks burn, and she doesn't know if she wants to hide under a rock or go over to Stiles' house and make him do it again and again and again.

She finally pushes it back into the deep crevices of her mind by Sunday night, forcing herself to let go of all want and need and thoughts circulating about Stiles and sex, forcing herself back to normal. She carefully picks out an outfit for each day of the week, staples her homework assignments together, eats dinner, and goes to bed at exactly 10 o'clock, not once allowing herself to think about Stiles.

She dreams about him, though, about his smile and moles on his back and neck, about the way he kisses her like it's everything in the world, and when Lydia wakes up, a space in her heart is gaping and warm, yearning for him.

The realization, sudden and stationary, floods over Lydia like a tidal wave. This isn't going to be easy, not something as colossal and permanent as this. Not in the slightest.

* * *

**Notes:** This wasn't as strong (or long) as I would've liked it to be, but it'll have to do. I'll write better next time.

Hope you enjoyed it!

(There will be more.)


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia spends a good twenty minutes of her morning talking herself into getting out of bed and into the shower, instead of dialing her mother's number and requesting to be called out of school for the day. Or week.

It's not _completely_ unreasonable; she already has months-worth of homework already completed and no tests this week. A week is the perfect amount of time to re-evaluate her life choices and wonder how the hell she's going to end these little extracurriculars with Stiles without completely destroying their friendship.

At first, Lydia convinced herself that Stiles had the right mind to think their little rendezvous was a weekend-thing only, because typically, Lydia's hookups are. However, that kiss suggested otherwise and because of that, this simply couldn't be avoided, no matter which way Lydia spins it.

In short, she's completely out of options and calling her mother would've resulted in running up their international phone bill and a stiff lecture about how rude it is to interrupt her much-needed vacation at the hotel bar in Cabo.

If her choice of vacation wasn't obvious that she's abandoning all parental responsibilities for at least a week, Lydia doesn't know what is.

Which, as a result, is why she's currently sitting in the school's parking lot, trying to figure out how she can contract a deadly (or maybe not _that_ extreme, but Lydia's thinking here) illness within twenty minutes. Mono was _so_ three weeks (at least half of the junior class was out sick and Stiles's paranoia was just too unbearable to go through again), and she doesn't have Allison in her passenger's seat to bounce ideas off of (who, in all honesty, would talk her into going to school, anyway), so Lydia concedes defeat with a heavy sigh, leaving her car.

Stiles is nowhere to be seen, Lydia notices, as she approaches the main doors. He's been off-puttingly distant since Saturday morning, only texting her for answers to homework or links to stupid Youtube videos.

Not once has he mentioned the sex or any subtle (as subtle as Stiles can be, which isn't subtle at all, Lydia realizes with a grimace) remarks or the overuse of winky-faces in his text messages.

In fact, they haven't had a legitimate conversation since he left her house Saturday morning, and while Lydia does appreciate Stiles's ability to hold off when necessary, it's still disconcerting not knowing exactly where they stand.

All Lydia knows is that Stiles has the decency not to share their recent endeavors with anyone, even Scott, which is definitely more than Lydia can say about her previous lovers, but a part of her wishes she could at least tell Allison about this, without the worry of getting anxious looks and communicating with Scott over lunch that _something is wrong, but I can't tell you, because it's Lydia, Scott, I promised_, and no, no.

Lydia is not going through that this time, she doesn't feel like dealing with Scott's puppy eyes and motherly concern and Allison's unfailing ability to get to the root of a situation, especially when it concerns Lydia. Any other time, she would be grateful that Allison knows her just as much as Stiles does, but not in this scenario. In this scenario, Lydia's only grateful she's been able to suppress the urge to slam her head against her locker and put a halt to all of these thoughts circulating in her brain.

Not a second later, Allison appears, as if knowing violence is rising to the surface.

"Are you okay?" she asks, eyebrows raised in concern.

Lydia plasters on her defense look #32: "Of course I'm not okay, but I will pretend to be for as long as possible, thank you very much", busying herself with her locker combination. "Of course I am," she responds as if it's obvious.

Allison looks unconvinced. "Does it have something to do with why you didn't show up to Erica's party Friday night?"

Lydia snorts. "If this so-called 'it' actually existed, I can assure you that wouldn't be the reason," she answers dryly, bored with all things Erica-related. Ever since she'd gotten help for her epilepsy sophomore year, abandoned her sweats and ratty t-shirts for form-fitting clothing, and actually realized she has a decent-sized cleavage, her popularity and appeal skyrocketed, putting her somewhere near Lydia's level, which is simply unacceptable and why they've been butting heads for the last couple of months.

Allison couldn't care less about any of it, having immediately became popular after befriending Lydia in the third grade and being oblivious to it all the same. She's dating Scott, who is best friends with Stiles, rendering him slightly _less_ unpopular but not by much, but that hasn't prevented Allison from dragging him along to Erica's parties when she's felt like going or sitting with them at lunch three days a week. Allison is one for compromise and indifference when it comes to her popularity, which is why she and Scott work.

Lydia has never even _considered_ taking Stiles to one of Erica's parties, which says more than enough about how important her social status is to her.

God. How has she managed to be this shallow and keep her friendship with Stiles afloat after all this time? How does Stiles even put _up_ with her?

Allison must sense her inner turmoil. "It wasn't worth going to, anyway," she insists. "Scott and I left early."

"You always leave early to go make out in the backseat of your car," Lydia reminds her. "You can't use that as your sticking point."

Allison shrugs, waving her hand dismissively. "Back to the point," she reverts. "Something is bothering you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lydia replies easily, scowling at her as pulling out her AP Biology textbook, catching a distinct pattern of plaid flash in the corner of her left peripheral. She turns her head slightly, seeing Stiles and Scott walk through the main doors, laughing at something idiotic, probably.

Malia appears not a second later, going to walk next to Stiles with such moderate haste that suggests a crush is bubbling beneath the surface. And if that's not anything to go by, then the look in her eyes definitely seals the deal.

Allison brightens immediately upon seeing Scott, smiling in the way she always does when she sees him, waving, and Lydia feels something churning in her chest, unabated and uncomfortable, and she quickly looks away, closing her locker.

She refuses to get jealous over Malia's silly, unrequited crush that won't evolve into anything. Not in a million years.

Allison turns back to her, giving her one last look. "Fine. We'll talk about this later," she decides, her tone battling between fondness and annoyance. "Oh, and by the way, Scott needs help with his math homework during lunch, and apparently Stiles couldn't figure it out either. I don't know why Scott decided to take Pre-Calculus, anyway. I mean - I _know _he's ambitious and wants to get better at math, but he should really be in Algebra II getting tutoring regularly, and - "

"Yeah, sounds fine." Lydia interrupts, looking up just in time to see Stiles and Malia round the corner together. She dismisses all irrational thoughts and contemplation of murder involving an accidental trip down the stairs, and smiles at Allison, voice sugary sweet. "Now, as much as I'd _love_ to hear your doting ramblings about Scott, I'd actually like to get to class before the late bell rings."

Allison rolls her eyes, stepping aside to let Lydia pass before meeting up with Scott down the hallway, immediately intertwining their fingers together.

Lydia doesn't allow herself to be jealous of the simplicity of their relationship. Not that.

* * *

School is proven to be even more grueling than usual. Lydia breezes through Biology easily, jotting down a few lines of neatly written notes here and there, her mind drifting. AP History is torturous and slow, and Erica wastes no opportunity to glare at Lydia from across the room, obviously pissed that she missed her party. It isn't until halfway through the class period when Boyd finally tells her to knock it off, all the while gently rubbing her neck as he scratches down notes of his own with his right hand, flashing Lydia an apologetic smile.

Boyd may be the most uninterested, least talkative person in the group, but he has his charms and putting up with Erica is definitely one of them.

Whether she and Erica learn how to tolerate each other or not, Lydia expects an invitation to that wedding.

* * *

By lunch time, Lydia is completely overwhelmed with her thoughts of Stiles and underwhelmed by her choices of salads, eventually picking Cesar and piling on the croutons. She's upset. She deserves some croutons, damn it.

Upon arriving to their lunch table outside, Lydia is more than annoyed to see that her usual spot next to Allison is taken by Kira, who has taken keen interest in sitting next to Isaac recently, both of whom are unsurprisingly interested in Yu-Gi-Oh. There's something to be admired for Lydia's willingness to put up with these people, but she's too annoyed to boost her ego at the moment.

She takes a seat next to Stiles, who is rigorously stuffing his mouth with curly fries, but somehow manages to take acknowledge her presence, albeit with a nod of his head. Damn him, and damn his _stupid_, pink mouth covered in potato crumbs that's inspired in a way that should be illegal.

Malia is staring at him with just as much rapt attention, eyes beaming. Gross.

Lydia huffs, opening her salad container and ignoring Allison's quizzical gaze, which could partially be due to the mountain of croutons on her plate. Stiles notices, too, raising a brow.

"I thought you said croutons had too many calories in them," Stiles reminds her, voice muffled from the potatoes.

Lydia wrinkles her nose. "I thought you outgrew talking with your mouth full five years ago," she fires back rudely, ripping open her dressing packet with a scowl.

Stiles raises both eyebrows, looking surprised. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine." Lydia bristles, angrily stabbing her salad with her fork. Allison has abandoned trying to communicate with Lydia via eye contact and has resorted to using her cell phone, sending multiple text messages in a row along with inconspicuous glances each time her cell vibrates. Lydia refrains from kicking her shin underneath the table.

Scott looks up from his cell phone, face laced with concern. "What's wrong, Lydia?"

Isaac gives him an annoyed look. "She just said she was fine."

Kira considers Lydia as discreetly as possible, still afraid to make eye contact. "I think she's just annoyed that we're all trying to figure out her mood," she supplies unhelpfully, shrinking when Lydia glares at her. "I mean - I would be, too, if you guys did that."

Malia, thankfully, has no input, otherwise Lydia would've broken her fork in half by now.

"While I appreciate the unwanted concern," Lydia finally says, "it's completely unnecessary and _very_ annoying."

Everyone smiles sympathetically, except for Isaac, who just shrugs.

Lydia sighs. "Scott, don't you need help with your math homework?" she asks, desperate to redirect the attention elsewhere.

Scott perks up immediately, exclaiming "oh, yeah!" as he hurriedly digs through his backpack.

Stiles places his hand on Lydia's thigh, warming her skin. "Hey, I'll help him. You should eat," he insists, his gaze infuriatingly worried.

Lydia grits her teeth. "Allison said you didn't know how to." She wants nothing more than to rip his hand off her skin and possibly shove it through a paper shredder. If only that were anatomically possible.

Stiles shrugs. "I'm pretty sure I can figure it out," he fixes her with a pointed look. "Eat."

Lydia gapes at him. Since _when_ does he give her orders? She turns back to her salad with annoyance and resentment, her croutons soggy, and considers excusing herself and seeking entertainment elsewhere when, abruptly, she feels Stiles's hand gently slide up and down her thigh, a movement Lydia would've deemed absentminded if his hand didn't raise higher each time. She inhales sharply when he barely brushes her inner thigh and glares at him outright.

He's occupied with explaining something to Scott, haphazardly swiping his pencil along lined paper with his left hand as they work on a math problem.

Outrageous.

Lydia is horrified, her skin breaking out in a sweat, and she wonders if anyone notices her discomfort. Her eyes sweep across the table, noting that aside from Scott and Stiles, the rest of the gang has resolved to talking among themselves or playing on their phones. Lydia doesn't allow herself to relax, however; the pressure of Stiles's hand creeping up her thigh is too pronounced to be ignored, and she tries shifting away from him as discreetly as possible, because _no way_, they are not doing this here.

But his grip tightens and his movements become bolder, grazing her panties the next time. Lydia jumps, a chill raising on her spine, and the rest of them remain oblivious when Stiles does it again.

She tries busying herself with her salad, completely mortified that this is happening, and bites down on her lip to keep a gasp from escaping when Stiles pushing her panties to the side, pressing a finger against her. Her body's reaction is immediate, wetness pooling in between her legs, and she sees Stiles's lips quirk up, glancing back at her slightly, his gaze sly.

Lydia considers stabbing an artery of his with her fork, but then his fingers slips inside of her, and her vision goes spotty, and shit, shit, _shit_. Stiles's finger moves erratically, purposefully avoiding where Lydia needs it the most, and it feels so good and so wrong at the same time and she wants to kill him. She truly does.

But she wants his finger deeply, wants three of his fingers buried deep inside of her and his thumb on her clit and she wants it now, but he doesn't give it, moving his finger around absently as he continues his explanation to Scott.

Lydia grabs a celery stick and chews on it to prevent herself from grinding her teeth down, all the while talking herself out of either jumping his bones or smacking him across the face in this moment. Possibly both. She files that away in her mind for later use.

Stiles adds a second finger right when Lydia goes to take a drink of water, almost causing her to choke, and before he can amp up his teasing, the bell rings, ending the lunch period.

Stiles rips his hand away, has the audacity to fucking _smooth her skirt down_, and gathers up his things, leaving with Scott not five seconds later.

Lydia blinks, shocked beyond words.

Allison and Kira share concerned looks.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Allison asks, shouldering her bag.

Lydia clears her throat, rising from her seat, ignoring the sticky feeling in between her legs and the bubbling rage in her chest. "I'm fine," she croaks, embarrassed, and picks up her things. "Just - I'm fine. I'll see you guys later."

She quickly excuses herself before they can question her further, grimacing at the wet glide of her underwear against her raw skin, and hopes to god that her arousal will go away within the next two hours.

* * *

It doesn't.

Damn Stiles. Damn him straight to hell.

* * *

It's been four hours since school ended and Lydia is still annoyed.

More than annoyed, quite in fact. She's infuriated and confused, her thoughts continuously steering back to a rather humiliating occurrence, steering back to the feeling of Stiles's fingers under her skirt, touching her - _teasing_ her, and how Lydia's shock rendered her helpless and frustratingly turned on.

Thinking about it now, after hours of distractions provided by her textbooks and a shower, which was intended to relax her, she feels even more unsettled, her muscles in her inner thighs quivering slightly. She still feels him, in every inappropriate sense of the word; his shoulder pressed against hers, his fingers splayed across her thigh just moments before he pushed them lower, his warmth invading her space.

And fuck him, because he did it with such deft and cleverness, and horrifyingly enough, _discretion_, that left Lydia bewildered and unfairly turned on in the worst way possible. In the way that made her feel too embarrassed to take care of herself afterwards, and Lydia is never embarrassed of granting herself sexual pleasure. Ever.

Damn him and his damn fingers, the thick and calloused skin. Damn him for making her squirm all the way through the last half of school and hours later, leaving her so incredibly horny with no desire to resolve the issue in the slightest. Fucking _damn_ him.

Stiles Stilinski needs to be destroyed, preferably after he fulfills her needs. Priorities: Lydia Martin has them and they are, in fact, in line.

Just then, her phone lights up, bringing her out of her rage momentarily, before it's renewed once again when Lydia sees the little twerp is texting her.

She opens the text, huffing, knowing that whatever Stiles is texting her for is probably designed to annoy her beyond normal capacity, which is significantly lowered due to today's disgraceful events.

Instead, she gets,

_You busy?_

Lydia frowns, automatically responding without even thinking about it. Force of habit. She needs to figure out how to regain control when it comes to Stiles, and when she lost it in the first place.

_Not necessarily. Why?_

Instead of replying in haste like usual, Lydia's text remains unanswered for a good fifteen minutes. A faint feeling of annoyance slash disappointment etcetera pangs somewhere deep inside her gut, but Lydia decides to ignore it, returning her attention to her English homework.

That is, until there's a bang against her window, causing Lydia to shriek in fright. Her phone starts ringing and vibrating, Stiles' customized ringtone blaring through her speakers, and she hurriedly answers her phone, her heartbeat accelerated.

"What?"

"Open the window, it's me. Shit - since when do you lock your window? Or close it for that matter? I literally boomeranged off your fucking window and almost broke my neck, holy _shit_ - "

Lydia rolls her eyes, walking over to her window to unlock and open the door, giving Stiles the most unimpressed look of which she's capable, as he unceremoniously crawls through her window, his cheeks red and panting.

"Way to go, Spiderman," Lydia says dryly, annoyance seeping through her words.

Stiles wheezes pathetically on her carpet, waving his hand at her. "You're the one who closed your window. Swear to god, the last time your window was shut is when we watched Scary Movie six years ago."

"I shut my window so little imps like _you_ wouldn't try sneaking in while I'm studying," she snips, plopping back into her desk chair to do said studying. Or at least attempt to appear to be studying, when in actuality, she's planning murder. If Stiles honestly thinks he can leave her itchy and unsatisfied and just pour into her window hours later, without any form of retaliation, he is sorely mistaken.

Stiles toes out of his shoes, sliding them near the door as he shrugs out of his backpack, smirking slightly at her. "You're annoyed."

"How intuitive of you," Lydia grumbles. Maybe she could just stab him with the pair of scissors on her desk. She could have his body dumped deep inside the woods tonight and the carpet replaced before her mother gets home.

Stiles lowers himself to his knees behind her, his chin pressing lightly into her shoulder. "Whatcha doing?"

Lydia lets out an exasperated noise, shrugging him off of her. "Homework. What else does one do at seven on a school night?"

Stiles breathes out a laugh. "Lyds, you've finished every homework assignment in each of your classes for the quarter," he leans close, nose brushing against her ear, voice soft. "Take a break. I can think of like, five different activities that would be much more enjoyable for the both of us."

Lydia doesn't have to turn around to see the obnoxious eyebrow wiggling Stiles is undoubtedly doing behind her, but she does anyway, looking at him angrily.

"Are you _serious_?" she asks, her anger seconds away from boiling over.

Stiles rears back, shocked by her outburst, and Lydia would feel bad if the look in his eyes didn't give away his amusement, no matter how hard he tries to conceal it.

"Lyds - "

"No." She stands up, pushing his shoulder with her finger. "You can't just tease me at school, rendering me humiliated and horny for _hours_, then show up here and act like it's okay."

Stiles gulps, eyes widening as he scurries backwards as she steps towards him, until he's pressed against her bed. "I'm - "

"We may have had sex," Lydia interrupts, seething, "but that does not mean you can tease me any time you damn well please. I am Lydia Martin, not someone with an idiotic, schoolgirl crush on you who blushes every time you smile in their direction."

Stiles flinches, squeezing his eyes shut when Lydia stands over him. He peeks out when he deems he's safe, or as safe as he can get. "I'm really sorry, Lyds. That was out of line."

"You're damn right, it was," she replies angrily, all thoughts of ending this screeching to a halt, only thinking about how desperately she wants him in this moment. "That's why you're going to make it up to me."

Stiles looks up at her, eyes full of compliance. "Anything, just - tell me what to do."

Lydia is pleased to have been right about pegging Stiles for the submissive type, and hardens her gaze. "Stand up and take off your shirt."

Stiles scrambles to his feet, ripping his mess of shirts up and off of his body, exhaling staggeringly when he meets her gaze.

Lydia walks towards him slowly, admiring the way a blush works up his chest. The want she's been feeling amplifies, driving her to close the space in between them, dragging a hand up his chest, smirking when he shudders.

She teases his nipple, twirling it between her fingers and pinching, and Stiles inhales sharply, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Gah, _Lydia_ - "

"Shut up," Lydia snaps, pressing her lips against his neck. She feels his pulse jump underneath her mouth and grins, unable to contain herself.

She loves everything about Stiles's neck, loves the pattern of moles and freckles, loves how sensitive he is when she nips just slightly above his pulse point, the way he cries out, gripping her hips. Arousal curls deep inside her stomach, pools in between her legs, and she bites harder, the noises he's making fueling her desire.

"_Shit_," he pants.

"How does it feel?" she asks, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses on his skin, bruising him. "Being teased like this?"

Stiles moans, stumbling back slightly. "Fucking unbearable."

Lydia rubs up against him, feeling him harden underneath her movements, and grins. "Good. You deserve it."

Stiles whimpers, bucking against her, and Lydia slides her hand down, hastily unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans. She  
reaches inside, past the elastic of his boxers and wraps her hand around him, and Stiles's response is immediate, a loud moan escaping his lips as he rubs helplessly against her.

"Fuck, _fuck_ -"

Lydia tightens her hold on his dick, hand skidding against the skin, and for a moment she desperately wishes she had lube, but Stiles' face is free of pain, his mouth open in short breaths. Lydia slides her hand upwards, circling her fingers around the tip, beading with pre-come, using it as her makeshift lube when she wraps her hand around him again, quickening her movements.

Stiles grunts, hips thrusting sharply into her hand, mumbling unintelligible words against her shoulder, his voice muffled. Lydia pulls away, pushing him down onto her bed wordlessly, straddling his hips as he stares up at her, awed and wanting. Lydia's mind is running a mile a minute, trying to sort every look and feeling she's getting into their rightful box, and the look in Stiles's eyes makes her want so much more and everything in this moment.

"_Lydia_." His voice breaks, trembles around her name, and she pushes down against him, pushes his jeans and boxers down far enough for his dick to come free, thick and heavy and long against his stomach, angry red with the need to come.

Lydia shimmies out of her panties, her skirt pooling over his jeans, and Stiles gives her a conflicted look, biting his lip.

Her eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"I just - " His cheeks redden. "Are we not using a condom - or?"

"Birth control," Lydia answers automatically, surprising the both of them. This is the first time Lydia's pulled this card, not taking any chances previously, but the way Stiles is looking at her makes her heart clench uncontrollably, and she wants to feel him, everywhere and all at once. "It's just this one time," she adds reassuringly, squinting at him. "Unless - ?"

Stiles shakes his head rapidly, blinking. "No, no. Not unless. No, I'm - I'm good if you are," he insists, eyes gleaming up at her, and warmth spreads all over Lydia's body.

How does he _do_ this to her?

"Good," she grips him, angling upwards and sinks down, gasping as he stretches her. This is what she's needed, craved for days, and she knows Stiles feels the same way, his face pinched with pleasure as he thrusts up into her, palms flattening against her hips to push her down. "_Oh_," Lydia grips his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. "Oh, that's good."

"Yeah?" Stiles pushes up, dick grazing her g-spot, and Lydia cries out, grinding down harder. Her orgasm lurks at the surface, sudden and so close and yet so out of reach, and she angles her hips, moving so that Stiles's dick brushing against her clitoris, moaning loudly when it does.

"Yes," she answers breathlessly, too far gone to formulate any other words. Her thighs tremble with the effort to stay upright and Stiles quickens his pace, his thrusts against unbearable and so, so good.

Stiles's face is pained as he moves in and out of her. "So wet. God, you feel so good around me, feels so much better like this."

Lydia's chest tightens at his words and leans down, pressing her lips to his, bruising and wet. Stiles moans into her mouth, his hips snapping up sharply, finally triggering her orgasm, causing her to bite down hard on his bottom lip, clenching around him. Stiles shortly comes after with a shudder, releasing inside of her with a low moan, mouth hot against hers.

Lydia breathes heavily for a moment, before pushing against his chest and up off of him, curling into his side as she glares at him. "You're an asshole."

Stiles quirks a brow, soothing his tongue over his bottom lip, his mouth red and bitten. "How so?"

"You made me wrinkle my skirt," she tells him, frowning deeply. She presses a finger to his lip, admiring her work. The crumples in the material will take weeks to come out, and she pokes his side, hard. "Hence, why you're an asshole."

Stiles jumps away from her fingers, batting her hands away halfheartedly. "Sorry. I really like your skirts." he admits quietly, turning over, his eyes laced with something Lydia's never seen before, and she realizes, belatedly, that this is the _exact_ reason why she should not be doing this. They should not be doing this.

Before she can awkwardly approach the subject of ending it, Stiles springs up, whipping his head around in search for his phone. "Shit. What time is it?"

Lydia glances over at her nightstand, the time reading 8:37pm. "Late," she says. "Is your dad working the overnight shift?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No. Said something about wanting to spend more quality time with me, or something," he answers dismissively, waving his hand.

Lydia nods slowly, her heart beating uncomfortably in her chest. "You should probably get going, then. The last thing I need is your father angrily pounding on my door asking where you are."

Stiles chuckles, his face bright, and it's truly breathtaking. "That hasn't happened in years."

"Yes," Lydia agrees, "but it _did_ happen and I was grounded for five weeks because of it, and so were you, in case you've forgotten." Lydia remembers those five weeks of only seeing Stiles at school, laughing about how red-faced and embarrassed her mother got when Stiles's dad called her at work, reprimanding her for being so oblivious at the fact that Lydia sneaked Stiles into her house so late at night.

Stiles runs his hands through his hair absently, giving Lydia a long look before standing up, tugging his boxers and jeans up, a flush spreading on his skin. Lydia's eyes follow the muscles in his back, forcing herself to look away before her mouth goes dry.

He locates one of his shirts, pulling it on hastily, gathering up the rest of his shirts in a bundle, along with his shoes and backpack when he crosses the room. He looks back at Lydia, his eyes soft and uncertain, like he doesn't know what to do next, and Lydia wants to remind him that they've done this before, but each time is slightly different, the pull of it tugging stronger.

Finally, he crosses the room again and stops in front of her, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. Lydia's eyes flutter closed and her heart beat doubles, so wildly Lydia's afraid she might combust.

When he pulls back, he smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "See ya tomorrow."

She nods, wide-eyed and warm, and watches him climb out of her window and down the same tree he always has, unfailingly breaking a branch or two on his way down, yelping in pain. Lydia smiles, a blush working its way onto her cheeks before she can stop it. She gives herself a few more moments of basking in the afterglow before clearing her throat, tucking her hair behind her ears.

_Tomorrow_, she decides firmly. Tomorrow she'll end it.


End file.
